Sacramento Parent Magazine

One Baby Shower x No Nap + 1 Cupcake + 2 Chocolate Covered Strawberries = The Lyrics to Crazy Train by Ozzy.

My sister was pulling out of a very tight parking spot, (”I might-need-a-can-opener-to-get-out-of-here” tight),  when she let an expletive come out of her mouth. As my sister continues to concentrate on her slalom-style maneuvering, my niece pipes up from the back seat, “Mama, who is Jack Ass?”
My sister, feeling chagrined, answers, “Oh honey, that’s not a person. It’s a bad word and we shouldn’t say it.” My niece replies, “Oh, JACKASS! I know that word! I just though you knew someone named Jack Ass since you say that name a lot.” As my sister tries to interrupt the soliloquy that is developing speed, my niece keeps going, “Yeah, I know I can’t say ‘jackass’ but I thought Jack Ass was a person and you knew him real well.” This conversation continues (with the word “jackass” repeated over and over) for a good 15 minutes.

Every morning when we rush out the door to go to work and preschool, my 2 year old asks if he can drive. He loves to sit in the driver’s seat and pretend he is in control. He is very cute as he grins ear to ear and turns the steering wheel back and forth while flipping on the lights, radio and hazards. I usually say, “No, we’re late,” (since we always are) and briskly scoop him up and put him in the car seat.
Since it was Sunday and we were not in a rush, I asked him if he wanted to drive. As soon as the question flies out of my mouth, he starts flapping his arms and repeating over and over in a panic-stricken voice, “We’re late! We’re late!”
Nice.

ATTN: Bathtub Crayola Users:

The water crayons that mark all over the walls and create an ungodly mess can also can be used on body parts. I am still concerned about why Picasso chose the body part he did (and, interestingly enough, he didn’t color them blue)…

Teenage years: Yeah! Another hour of sleep.

College years: Yesh! Another hour at the bar.

Children getting up with the sun not the alarm clock years: Yeah…this sucks.

A contender for the Pulitzer Prize should be an essay on how to explain fog to a two year old.